


kissing just for practice

by moeexyz



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Dry Humping, Explicit Language, Hand Jobs, Lack of Communication, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Partially-Resolved Sexual Tension, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Emotional Tension, minor homophobia and misogyny bc teenage boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 18:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moeexyz/pseuds/moeexyz
Summary: A weekend in Rimouski, 2008.The early stages of Jack and Kent.





	kissing just for practice

**Author's Note:**

> I'm absolutely fascinated by how Jack describes his and Kent's relationship when he tells Bitty, so this was mostly just me playing around with Jack's selective denial about any Kent-related emotions.
> 
> Title from Seeing Other People by Belle and Sebastian.
> 
> Just a note on the minor homophobia and misogyny bc teenage boys thing: There's a running joke about Kent and Jack being married and at one point one of their teammates calls Jack the bitch in the relationship, though none of it is ever intentionally malicious.

 

 

_Friday._

 

"You did not." 

"I did!" Burny insists.

"Ally Cho did not let you put your stumpy little fingers inside her," Stoltzy says, incredulous.

Jack slumps down in his seat. They're on the bus to their next game, and Stoltzy has propped himself up against the window, in the seat in front of Jack, so he can see Burny and Howzer across the aisle from where Jack and Kent are sitting. Unfortunately, he also has a pretty decent view of Jack and Kent now, too, which means it's only a matter of time before they're sucked into this terrible conversation.

As if on cue, Stoltzy scoffs. "Maybe if you were Parse."

"Why Parse?" Burny whines, indignant. Burny tries too hard to be cool, and Kent just is. Jack's sure, for Burny, it stings a little.

Jack glances at Kent. He's unaware, playing some Mario game on Davy's Nintendo DS—they have an ongoing battle for the high score on a mini-game. Jack's been half-listening and dreading the inevitable moment when someone would bring Kent in, because somehow Kent always got brought into these things. It's all that easy charisma. The rest of the team need him to validate their crappy stories, especially Burny.

"Bro, you're behind," Howzer says. "Didn't you see last weekend? Lauren Walker had her legs wrapped around Parse like they were in a porno." He throws a glance in Kent's direction. Kent's still not paying attention. Jack, unfortunately, is, so he's the one who catches the suggestive raise of Howzer's eyebrows. God, he wishes he wasn't here. Why can't they just talk about hockey?

Burny says, "Did you get _your_ stumpy fingers in Lauren Walker, Parser?" Grinning lecherously.

Kent keeps his head down, focused on the DS, but he says, "Think you're projecting a little about your fingers there, _Ashley._ "

"It's a unisex name, asshole!" Burny snaps, at the same time as Stoltzy says, "Come on, Parse. Faye told me she saw you two leaving together on Saturday."

Jack likes Faye—Stoltzy's girlfriend. She's always friendly with him, even when he's a bit awkward, but she's a relentless gossip, and it's started to rub off on Stoltzy, which Jack decidedly does not like.

Kent says, "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell." It's a cop out, but it's his usual answer to these kinds of questions so it's not like the guys can do anything about it.

Still, it gets some half-hearted boos from Burny and Howzer. Stoltzy goes a step further and blows a raspberry at Kent. Jack's hoping Kent's evasiveness is enough to kill the conversation, or at the very least, direct it away from their little corner of the bus, but Stoltzy's all amped up from Burny's bullshit story about Ally Cho, so he turns to Jack, with a conspiratorial glint in his eye.

"Zimmermann," He says, smirking, and Jack's heart starts beating a little faster. As much as Kent was inevitably going to get dragged into this, there was still a high chance Jack might not have to be. He hates when the team tries to make him talk about girls or sex. He slumps further in his seat, not that it helps since, three sets of eyes are already on him, Kent still distracted by the video game.

"How far did he get? For real?" Stoltzy continues, voice low, like Kent's not sitting right there.

Jack feels a wash of relief that Stoltzy's not asking about _him_ yet. "Why would I know?" He manages to say, evenly.

"You guys are, like, married," Stoltzy says, leaning forward into Jack and Kent's space. "I bet you know all his secrets."

There's an agitated feeling prickling at Jack's spine. Like, he gets it—he and Kent are very obviously best friends—but they're not _actually_ attached at the hip. Jack wouldn't know any more than Stoltzy or the rest of the team, because in Jack's experience, Kent truly doesn't kiss and tell. Jack only knows about him and Lauren, because he saw Kent talking to her in the kitchen, one arm resting casually on the wall, boxing her in, and he saw the flirty way she giggled at everything Kent said. And—well—it's hard to be subtle when you're practically in a girl's lap, making out with her in your teammate's girlfriend's kitchen. So Jack saw, and Jack knew, but Kent hadn't mentioned Lauren once, since. Jack doesn't see what reason they'd have for assuming he carried that kind of information.

"Zimmermann won't tell us shit. He didn't even tell us he made out with Vicky Kingston, that time. We had to hear about it from Davy," Howzer says, already disappointed in Jack's silence.

Davy, who's sitting next to Stoltzy—hidden from Jack's view because he's actually in his seat—mutters, "I only knew because Parse told me."

Jack doesn't look at Kent, at that, but his brows furrow of their own volition. He hadn't told Kent about Vicky Kingston. Vicky Kingston was the result of mixing beer with vodka at one of the few parties _not_ thrown at Faye's house, and as far as Jack knew, Kent was busy talking to a couple of the girls from their high school softball team, with Davy all night. Kent must have come to the backyard at some point and seen Jack with Vicky. Something else he hasn't brought up since it happened, though he'd clearly found the time to mention it to Davy.

Next to Jack, Kent hisses, losing his mini-game.

Stoltzy stares down at them with an overly sweet smile. "A perfect pair," He says, like not sharing personal information makes them soulmates somehow.

"Seems counterproductive to tell his husband if he hooks up with another girl," notes Davy, because he's a good guy, and he's closer to Kent than most of the other guys—save Jack—so he tends to defend Kent's honour on occasion.

Jack's about to snap that they're not actually married, but Burny does it for him. "They're not real husbands, Davy."

Kent finally looks up from the Nintendo, and levels Burny with an aloof expression. "Much like you didn't finger Ally Cho at Faye's party last weekend," He says, passing the DS forward to Davy, who takes it without looking. Jack tracks the movement with his eyes.

"I fucking did!" Burny exclaims, but it's too late. Stoltzy and Howzer's attention is back on him, and Kent and Jack are set free from this stupid conversation.

Kent shoots Jack a smirk, rolling his eyes at the predictability of their teammates. In front of him, Davy swears, and passes back the DS, "Already lost. Your turn."

"Pathetic," Kent chirps, with a soft smile, attention gone from Jack, quick as it came.

Davy's from New Jersey, which is why he and Kent bonded, trading jabs about their respective cities. Kent told Jack they even hung out over Christmas Break, which is where their high score battle started. Kent offered to let Jack join once, but he's more of a Playstation guy, anyway. Mario is their thing.

Jack looks out the window at the passing trees. It's spring so everything looks green and bright outside. It's a nice day. Shame they're going to spend it on a bus, then an ice rink, then another bus.

He feels Kent slouch beside him, legs spreading so his knee bumps lightly against Jack's. Jack leans his forehead on the cold glass, listening distantly to Howzer and Stoltzy picking apart Burny's lie, and bumps his knee back, for a second.

 

They lose the game.

Jack kicks his way into the changing room—too loud and aggressive—but he can't help himself. Kent's two steps ahead of him. Jack follows him, standing too close to Kent's space at Kent's stall. As soon as Kent glances at him, Jack mutters, "You should have passed.

"Don't start," Kent says, dangerously, peeling off his gloves and rolling his eyes at Jack as he flings them down carelessly.

The rest of the team filters in, quiet. Throwing the two of them wary glances as they head towards their own locker stalls.

"I could've gotten past them."

"There were three guys on you," Kent snaps, turning to face Jack. His eyes are a stormy grey, his mouth downturned into an unpleasant frown. "Number 13 looked like he was about to break your teeth if you got the puck again, I wasn't about to let you—"

"It's not your problem! You do the play that helps us—"

"— _such_ an asshole! You wouldn't have scored anyw—"

"—better than just giving a point away!"

"I did what I could! I'm not the fucking goalie!"

"Don't bring me into this. I want no part in your lover's quarrel," Davy says, drily, from across the room.

"We're not fucking married, Davis!" Jack shouts. The room goes silent, half the guys flinching from how loud Jack's voice was. Kent turns away from Jack, shoulders held tight and jaw clenched.

Quietly, Kent says to his stall, "Yeah, god help me tolerating _your_ bullshit for the rest of my life."

"Fuck off, Kent," Jack snaps, sharply, and throws his helmet into his own locker, ignoring the way Kent jumps at the clattering sound it makes.

 

When Jack wakes up, the bus is quiet. Jack faintly hears someone snoring towards the front. The lights are out, making it feel later than it is, inside the bus. Jack can see the pinks still bleeding out of the sky, on the horizon.

He's sitting alone this time—he chose the back specifically for this reason. Everyone is familiar enough with his bad moods to know he's not exactly soothing to be around after a loss, so when he went to sleep the entire row was empty. It's not empty now. Kent had been up front with Davy earlier, still seething at Jack, but now he's on the opposite pair of seats, staring sullenly out the window, with his chin in his hand.

"Where are we?" Jack asks him quietly. Kent has his headphones in, but his music must not be too loud, since he pulls one out and glances at Jack.

"Still an hour out," He says, flatly. He's expressionless, emotions hidden behind the mask he puts up when something upsets him. Or someone.

"What are you listening to?" Jack asks.

"Nothing you'd like," Kent says, and there's a hint of feeling there. Something spiteful.

Jack cracks his back, stretching his body out of the awkward angle he'd fallen asleep in. He crosses the aisle, to the seat next to Kent and takes the spare earbud Kent had pulled out to hear him. Kent mostly ignores him, only acknowledging Jack's presence by moving his own earbud to his other ear so the headphones aren't stretched out across them.

It's a familiar pop song, upbeat. Deceptively cheerful, considering Kent's current mood. There's a girl singing, but it's not Britney Spears, Jack knows. Kent's made him listen to her enough that he can recognises the husk in her voice now. This singer sounds smoother.

"I've heard this before," Jack says, looking at Kent to see if he'll say anything.

Kent still doesn't look at Jack, but his mouth quirks into the ghost of a smile, despite himself. One of those  _Jack is so unbelievably uncultured_ smiles. "Yeah, Zimms, everyone alive has heard this before," Kent says, though he doesn't tell Jack what the song is.

"It's nice," Jack says, anyway.

This time, Kent does smirk, shaking his head a little. "You're so full of shit."

Jack watches him. Kent's eyes twitch back and forth, latching onto every tree outside before quickly hopping onto the next. He still hasn't looked at Jack, but he hasn't shooed him away, and he hasn't said anything overtly testy, so Jack lets himself settle.

He's still irritated about losing, but there's enough distance from the game now that most of Jack's anger is directed at himself, more than Kent. Kent was right. He wouldn't have scored. All passing to him would have done is maybe put Jack out of commission for a couple of games, which he would have hated even more than losing. Kent made the right call. Now, Jack's mostly annoyed at being so mad at him for it. Jack needs to play better. He needs to meet Kent in the middle so they don't let this happen again.

"You going to Faye's tomorrow night?" Jack asks. Faye's parents are notorious for never being there, which has incidentally turned their home into the local party house for the Rimouski Océanic hockey players and their girlfriends. Stoltzy, Jack knows, practically lives there.

"Yeah, probably," Kent says. "You?"

"Yeah."

Lauren's likely going to be there, Jack thinks. She's friends with Faye. He could ask Kent. Lauren would presumably have texted him about it—if that's something they do. Jack doesn't actually know.

"You can crash at mine, after," Jack says. His billet is closer to Faye's house than Kent's is.

Kent says, "Yeah, maybe."

Last weekend, Kent walked Lauren home. He might want to do that again, this time.

Jack plays with the strings of his sweatpants, absently, as the song fades into something mellow and sad. He leans back in his seat, inadvertently leaning into Kent a bit. He slouches—so that if he falls asleep here, his head will fall to Kent's shoulder instead of hanging forward uncomfortably—and closes his eyes, listening to the soft crooning of the female singer he knows but doesn't know.

When he's on the cusp of sleep, his head lolls forward, a little. He feels Kent's fingers on his face, warm and callused, directing him gently back to his shoulder.

 

 

_Saturday._

 

Jack waits outside Kent's billet, in his truck, travel mug of coffee in hand. Kent comes out looking grumpy. He glares weakly at Jack as he climbs into the truck.

"Can't we just stay late after practice instead of coming in before?"

Jack smiles. Kent's still a little sleep-rumpled. He didn't style his hair this morning so there's errant curls poking out of his hat. His eyes are green like a river stream, almost translucent.

"No," Jack says firmly. "I want to get my French homework done before the party." He doesn't really need the excuse. They've done this many times, a sort of half-formed tradition at this point. Jack's favourite part of it tends to be when he picks Kent up, and Kent's outward persona hasn't fully locked into place yet, leaving him disordered and surly. Jack finds him beguiling like this.

"You literally speak French. Do you _really_ need a good grade?" Kent says, taking the coffee from Jack's hand anyway, and cupping his hands around it—melodramatic, like Jack's about to make him do manual labour in the Arctic Circle, instead of practising a sport he loves in an ice rink

"Hush. We're going," Jack says, amused. He pulls Kent's hat down over his face—just to hear Kent's disgruntled scoff—and starts the truck.

 

They run quick drills on the ice. Kent doesn't stop bitching about Jack making him wake up early on a Saturday, but he's more alert now—zooming past Jack with his usual ease. Jack doesn't actually like playing against Kent, not even for fun. He's too competitive to let himself truly enjoy it, but it's good for drills. Kent's the only person that can match him in skill, so it makes sense to do it, but Jack still comes out of it, sometimes, feeling insecure.

Kent's so effortlessly good. Jack spends his entire life focused on hockey and Kent matches him so easily without even trying. Kent works hard, sure, but he's not always thinking about it the way Jack is. He can switch it off and focus on other things, like making friends other than Jack, and getting girls to kiss him at parties.

"How's it going with Lauren?" Jack asks, fiddling absently with the puck.

Jack has fast hands. He's a bit of a show-off, he knows, but once he pulled off a beautiful little fake-out around a player during one of their games, and after he scored, Kent had bumped their helmets together, grinning goofily at Jack, and said, "Did you see his face? I fucking love it when you do that." So, Jack too loves doing it.

Kent shrugs. "Same as always."

Jack doesn't know if _always_ is supposed to mean the nothing Kent and Lauren were before last weekend, or if _always_ is the nebulous state their relationship has fallen into since making out at a party.

"Think you guys'll hook up tonight?"

Jack spins the puck in place. He can feel Kent staring at him. He doesn't look to see what expression has sealed itself onto Kent's face.

"Don't know if I'm feeling it," Kent says, nonchalant.

"Why?" Jack asks.

Instead of answering, Kent darts in, stealing the puck with a check of questionable legality, and then speeding away from Jack to the net. He slides it in with a perfunctory shot, and glides back towards Jack, as Jack skates to the goal to get it back.

"Lauren's pretty," Jack says, as they pass by each other.

Behind him, he hears Kent call out, " _You_  get with her, then."

Lauren's charming in the way Kent is—friendly and witty. She  _is_ pretty. She has short blonde hair that gets darker at the roots, and she always wears glittery gold eyeshadow at parties. She doesn't fall over herself for hockey guys, usually, so she must genuinely like Kent. They'd make sense, as a couple.

Jack fires the puck full force towards the opposite goal. Kent's in it's trajectory, distractedly gliding across the ice, so he has to hop over it clumsily, since he doesn't have enough momentum to catch it. He throws Jack a chastising look for not warning him.

Jack feels a pang of guilt, and skates up to meet him at centre-ice.

"Let's practice the one-timer," Jack says, because that, at least, they both enjoy. "We're winning the next game."

Kent's still looking at him like he's waiting for something, but all he says, before skating after the puck is, "Okay."

 

Jack loses Kent to Davy and a game of beer pong almost immediately, so he lets Stoltzy lead him to the corner of the room, and pull him into a conversation with Faye and one of her friends, Jessica. Jessica's tall—an inch off Jack's height in heels. She's wearing a form fitting sequinned top. Her platinum hair is so long, Jack wonders how it doesn't get caught in it.

Jessica's the grade above them in school. She and Jack have the same history teacher, so they fall easily into a conversation about his weird neuroses, like when people click their pens too much, or lean back in their chairs. This leads to a conversation about how annoying it is that Mr Horne is completely disinterested in explaining any in-depth detail about Canada's involvement in World War Two. Which leads to Jack recommending a couple of his favourite documentaries about the topic. And when Jack finally looks around again, Stoltzy and Faye are gone, and he's alone with Jessica.

Jack glances at the beer pong table. They must be on their second game by now, judging by how long he's spent talking to Jessica. Lauren Walker has found her way into the audience, wearing a gold dress tonight to match her eyeshadow. There's too many people surrounding the action for Jack to see Kent. He can only make out the top of Davy's brown hair, and the occasional glimpse of the Océanic hat Kent's wearing, whenever Davy puts his hand on it to shake Kent, in excitement. Something must happen in the game, because the crowd start jeering and chanting for somebody to drink.

"You want to go talk somewhere a little quieter?" Jessica asks him with a sweet smile.

"Sure," Jack says, and follows her to the kitchen.

 

They perch themselves by the kitchen counter—the same one Kent and Lauren made out against, Jack thinks. They talk a little about what university Jessica wants to go to—Toronto—and what Jack's looking forward to about senior year—finishing it.

Jessica gravitates closer and closer to him as they talk. Jack will be the first to admit he's a little socially inept, but even he knows what it means when a girl touches his arm so many times. Plus, he can see Howzer and Burny through the doorway to the sitting room, and they're both watching Jack and Jessica with matching shit-eating grins. So Jack presses closer to her, and when she tilts her chin towards him a little, he leans in to kiss her.

It's fine, as far as kisses go. Jessica keeps a hand on the nape of Jack's neck, and the other on Jack's shoulder, her grip loose and easy. Jack puts his hands on her waist, and regrets it the instant he feels the sequences on her shirt sticking uncomfortably to his hands. It's awkward to move them away now, so he just leaves them there, and tries not to think about it. Jessica's a fine enough kisser that it works. A little taller than he's used to, though.

Someone wolf-whistles as they pass through the kitchen, and Jack feels a breath against his cheek as Jessica snorts, and pulls him closer. She opens her mouth to him, so that they're full on making out against the kitchen counter, where Kent made out with Lauren exactly a week ago.

Jack wonders if Jessica's enjoying it. If this is hot for her or if she's doing it because she knows her friends are watching her with that popular hockey guy. He wonders if it looks hot to the people watching them—to Howzer and Burny, and probably Stoltzy and Faye, thinking they're so clever for setting it up.

Last weekend, when Kent and Lauren made out, Lauren was fully sitting on the counter, legs bracketing Kent's hips, feet locked together behind him. Kent had leaned into her, one hand planted on the counter, the other on Lauren's cheek. It looked like they were enjoying it. It looked like something people who were attracted to each other would do. Jack wonders if maybe he should try detaching from the sequences and putting his hand on Jessica's cheek too, but before he can decide, he hears someone clear their throat next to him, and then he feels a light tap on his shoulder.

He pulls away, Jessica giggling and sort of half-burrowing into his shoulder, embarrassed, like she didn't know they were making out in full view of everyone at this party, and literally anyone could interrupt them. The tapping, it seems, came from Howzer, who looks contrite.

"Sorry, bro. Need help with Burny, he's a bit…" Howzer trails off. Jack can guess what that means. Burny's burly, and Burny cannot hold his liquor. Jack's one of the few guys on the team who could feasibly carry him out of here, without toppling over from Burny's drunken weight.

Jack shoots Jessica an apologetic look. She smiles, a little put upon, but trying to hide it. "You should help your friend. You can come back later."

"Thanks," Jack says, and follows Howzer to the back door.

Howzer bumps his shoulder, eyebrows raising suggestively. "Come back later eh," He says with a smirk.

Jack doesn't know if he'll be back later, or if Jessica will even be interested if he is, but it still annoys him that Howzer's trying to leer at him when his best friend is no doubt on the verge of passing out, outside.

"Why'd you let him get so bad?" Jack asks, sharply.

Howzer looks appropriately abashed at that. "Sorry, Cap."

 

They find Burny in Faye's backyard, sitting listlessly against a raised flowerbed. He's not completely out yet, mumbling incoherently when he notices Jack and Howzer standing over him. They lift him up carefully, taking an arm each, so Burny's secured firmly enough to walk. They manage to stumble him through the kitchen—where Jessica, pouring herself another drink at the kitchen island, shoots Jack a sympathetic look—and then, through the dining room, back to Faye's hallway.

There's a few people milling about the house, throwing them pitying looks, but otherwise not moving from their conversations. When they make it to the front door, Burny sways a little, leaning too heavily on Jack, and Jack ends up pitching under his weight, and bumping into a girl, who he quickly realises is Lauren, who he just pushed straight into the arms of the guy she was talking to—Kent.

"Whoa, is he okay?" Kent asks, brows furrowed in concern, but instead of looking at Burny he's looking at Jack. He has his arms on Lauren's elbows to keep her steady against him.

"We got him," Jack says, and pushes on, carrying Burny out the door.

Jack doesn't look back to check if Lauren's okay, figures Kent will probably take care of it. But then, once they're past Faye's driveway, Kent jogs up to them, a bottle of water in each hand.

He cuts them off, standing in front of Burny.

"Here you go, buddy," He says, uncapping the bottle.

"Damn, why didn't we think of that?" Howzer asks. Jack had assumed from the amount of times Burny's done this, and Howzer had to look after him, that Howzer already had. Idiots.

"Parser!" Burny announces with a sloppy, cheerful grin.

Kent smiles in amusement. "Yep," He says, holding the bottle to Burny's lips so he can drink a little.

"Please do this faster. He's like a fucking truck," Howzer groans at the same time as Jack says, "We got it, Parse. You can go back to the party."

Kent ignores them both as he pulls the water away, bottle half-empty. Burny makes a satisfied sound and grins at Kent again. "Mom Friend, Kenneth Parser," Burny slurs out. 

Kent just gives Burny a thumbs up and shoots a pointed look at Jack.

Whatever. Kent's going to do whatever he wants to do. Jack says, "Fine, but don't walk in our way," and lets Kent wander on ahead of them.

 

They drop Burny off at Howzer's, since they can't bring him back to his billet in this state without driving him there, and Howzer's only a couple blocks from Faye's house. Howzer stays to make sure Burny doesn't choke on his own vomit during the night, so when they leave Howzer's billet house, it's just Jack and Kent.

"You didn't have to come," Jack says.

Kent's looking up at the stars. Under the soft glow of the few streetlights around, Kent's eyes look dark blue, like the ocean at night.

He shrugs, absently, then looks at Jack with an easy smile on his lips. "Now you've got company for the walk back."

They wander back towards Faye's house, pace slow and tranquil, a comfortable silence between them. Kent really doesn't need to be here. He could have just stayed and talked to Lauren. Jack would have come back. Probably.

Jack wants to ask about Lauren. About what she and Kent were talking about tonight, and if Kent's stance on her has changed since this morning. What he asks instead is, "You win beer pong?"

"Naturally," Kent answers, though he's not as smug as the statement would imply. No one to impress, Jack guesses. 

They fall into silence again, stark against the hushed sound of their shoes on the pavement. This time, it's Kent that breaks it first. "That girl you were with was hot."

"Yeah," Jack agrees, mildly. Then adds, "Jessica. She wants to go to University of Toronto." Jack wonders if Kent knows about her because someone else on the team told him, or because he passed by the kitchen, like Jack last week.

"Too smartypants for me," Kent says, like this conversation was ever about if Kent would date her.

Jack says, "Lauren's smart." She's the student body vice president and she's on the debate team, Jack happens to know.

"Kinda proves my point," Kent says, cryptically.

"You're smart too," Jack tells him.

Despite his cockiness, Kent tends to sell himself short when it comes to anything that isn't hockey or his looks. He _is_ smart. Just because he isn't top of the class at anything doesn't mean his intelligence doesn't have value. He's a good strategic thinker. He's unbelievable at quick math. Jack always goes to him for point totals and stats. Kent once tried explaining to him how to count cards, and Jack didn't really get it, but he liked the way Kent talked about it—confident, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Kent says, "I'm probably not as smart as smartypants Jessica." He says it, offhand—an innocuous comment, though it doesn't feel like one.

Jack knows it would take more than one late night conversation to talk Kent out of whatever mindset this is, so he goes for an easy chirp instead. "Can't be a smartypants if you're already a smartass eh."

Kent smiles at that. Jack relaxes a little, unaware he was tense to begin with.

"But you pull it off so well, Zimms, someone ought to try beating you at it," Kent quips, with a smirk.

Jack hip-checks him, pushing him off the sidewalk and onto the street for a brief moment. Kent steps up and hip-checks him back, sniggering under his breath.

They poke and prod at each other until they're back at Faye's street, and stop across from her house. There's music playing faintly, some pop song Jack has heard on the radio but couldn't place, if asked. Jack can see people dancing through Faye's living room window, but he can't tell if Jessica or Lauren are part of the crowd.

He looks at Kent, who gives him a neutral look back, when he feels Jack's stare.

"Wanna bail?" Kent asks, evenly

"Sure. Keep drinking at mine?" Jack suggests.

"Sure," Kent echoes. He sidesteps around Jack, and starts walking in the direction of Jack's billet. Jack throws one last look at the dancing teenagers through the window, and follows.

 

Jack still has a half-full bottle of vodka under his bed from the last time they did this. He sneaks two glasses and some Sunny D from the kitchen back up to his room, and they sit on his bed making poorly mixed screwdrivers, and shit-talking their teammates.

"Did you even see how much Burny drank? I swear he only had about three beers all night," Kent says. "Fuckin' lightweight."

Kent's lying back on a pillow propped up against Jack's headboard, legs crossed, hat abandoned for the sake of comfort. Jack's lying in the opposite direction, curled in half so his torso is perpendicular to Kent's legs, and he can poke playfully at Kent's socked feet.

"Kenny, you once got blackout drunk off two shots of vodka," Jack reminds him.

Kent snorts. His cheeks are getting rosy, though Jack can't tell if it's from the nickname or the alcohol. When Kent's mom and sister came up to watch one of their games, a few months ago, they'd only called him Kenny, something Kent was visibly embarrassed by in front of Jack. Naturally, Jack started calling him that too. Kent was normally so unflappable, it always thrilled Jack to see the faults in his mask—the flush rising in his cheeks every time Jack said it. These days, Kent's so used to hearing it, he almost never reacts, but the nickname's too ingrained in Jack's vocabulary to stop now.

Kent says, "I didn't eat that day, and the first time _you_ drank, you were drunk off, like, half a Corona Light."

"That's not true," Jack says, poking at Kent's thigh. Kent twitches as if to shake him off, so Jack does it again.

"Fuck off, you nuisance," Kent says, laughter in his voice.

It's all the invitation Jack needs to shift forward and try poking Kent in the stomach. Kent giggles, trying to lean away from Jack without spilling his drink. He pushes at Jack's chest with his feet.

"Stop," Kent says, through his laughter. "Christ, you're gonna make me—"

And then Kent kicks him a little too hard, causing Jack to wobble around to stay upright, and shift the leg his drink was leaned against, which spills his drink off the bed and onto the air mattress Jack always keeps ready in his room in case Kent crashes there.

They sit in frozen silence, listening to the clatter of the glass on the hardwood floor, sounding starker now in the silence of the late night. Jack leans over the edge of the bed to check. The glass didn't break, though there's a noticeable stain on the air mattress, and a splatter of orange liquid on the floor.

When Jack looks at Kent again, Kent breaks into a fit of sunny laughter. Jack smiles at him, giddy.

"I don't know why you're laughing. That's _your_ bed," Jack teases.

"Oh, you think I'm not just gonna take yours?" Kent says, raising an eyebrow. His chirping is betrayed by the pink, joyful glow on his cheeks.

"That's how it is eh," Jack says, a challenge in his voice.

Kent shrugs, overly casual. "Unless you can get me off."

His sentence hangs there—innocent, except for how it's not at all. Kent takes a long sip of his drink, maintaining eye contact with Jack as he does it. Jack swallows. He glances quickly at the wet sheen on Kent's lips when Kent pulls the glass away, pointedly setting it on Jack's nightstand.

Jack puts a hand on Kent's shin, feels the warmth of him under the sweatpants Jack let him borrow, so he wouldn't have to stay in his jeans all night. There's muscle there too. Jack squeezes lightly, watching the way his tumb gets lost under the fold of the fabric. Kent's legs remain very still.

Kent's still staring intently at him when Jack looks back. Jack smiles, knowingly. And then he yanks Kent further down the bed. He hears Kent let out a soft, "oof," and pounces.

Kent's already gotten with the program, propping his knees up and shoving Jack back as Jack tries to wrestle, but Jack is bigger and stronger. He laces his fingers through Kent's and tries to squish down on him with his weight, straddling him in the process.

Kent laughs, breathless, as he tries to push Jack off. "You're such an asshole."

Jack leans forward, so the only thing holding him up above Kent is the shared strength of their arms, bent together between them. He smiles at Kent, saccharine sweet, the way Kent always does right before tearing his way down the ice. And then—because Jack is indeed _such an asshole_ —he grinds his ass down on Kent's crotch.

He faintly feels something there. It doesn’t matter, because Kent still gasps harshly, and his knees drop abruptly, giving Jack more room to do it again.

They've done this a handful of times over the last month, but Jack already knows the sound of Kent's gasp is the biggest turn on he'll ever have. Jack sits up so he can shift down Kent's body a little, where it's more pleasurable for both of them, and Kent lets go of his hands, putting them on Jack's hips, instead. He's watching Jack, eyes wide with anticipation.

Jack grinds down again. This time, he can feel Kent, hard through the sweatpants, and the small pressure of it is enough to send a little jolt of pleasure to his own half hard cock, in his basketball shorts.

Kent lets out a huff of breath, and then surges up. Jack meets him halfway, cupping his hands against Kent's face, and pressing their lips together, pushing his tongue straight into Kent's mouth. The wet heat of it, sending a swooping wave of arousal down his body.

He keeps grinding down, setting them on a steady pace, trying to get their cocks to press against each other as much as possible. They haven't had any skin to skin contact yet, other than the one time Kent valiantly shoved his hand down Jack's jeans when he came back to Jack's after practice, a couple of weeks ago. Jack hasn't even seen Kent's dick yet, but he wants to. He tries to picture what it would look like in his hand, Kent whimpering at every shift of Jack's wrist. Undoing Kent like that.

Jack moans into Kent's mouth, and Kent's fingers press harder into his hips, for a fraction of a second. Kent pulls away from Jack's mouth, and trails wet, hot kisses down his neck. Jack thinks of what it will be like if they graduate to using their mouths lower. He speeds up his rhythm, and Kent matches him, somehow finding the exact right angle that thrusts their erections together.

Kent whines, pulling away from Jack's neck to let out a ragged breath. Jack grinds down long and slow, feels something low inside him coiling tight.

"Fuck," Kent hisses, under his breath. He snakes a hand through Jack's hair—sending tingles through Jack's scalp—and pulls them both down so Jack's lying on top of him.

Jack grinds against him, helplessly, snaking his hands under Kent's shirt to touch Kent's body. Kent's so hot under his fingertips. Jack can feel the way his muscles move when he shifts up to grind back against Jack. Jack wants to taste the salt of Kent's skin. He kisses down Kent's jaw.

"Kenny," He whispers.

"Yeah?" Kent says, breathless.

Their rhythm is starting to stutter now. Jack knows he's close. He can feel the edge of an orgasm low in his belly.

"You close?"

"Nah, but—"

Before Kent can finish and Jack can overthink it, Jack slides his hand from under Kent's shirt, down past Kent's waistband, and wraps it around Kent's slick dick.

"Oh fuck," Kent sighs, in a rush, voice breaking deliciously.

Jack moves so he has enough room to jerk Kent off and still press his own hard cock into Kent's thigh.

"Fuck. Zimms, fuck," Kent stutters out, breaths coming out fast and shaky.

Jack bites lightly at Kent's neck to muffle his own moans, vibrating back through Kent's skin. He slides a thumb over the head of Kent's cock, as he presses his tongue over the spots where he scraped his teeth.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck,  _Jack,"_ Kent gasps, and then he's spilling out into Jack's fist. The feeling of it sends Jack over the edge with a guttural moan, eyes squeezing shut as his vision whites out for a second, and he comes in his shorts. He drops his head over Kent's shoulder, trying to compose himself a little. He feels Kent's chest, rising and falling with rapid breaths, underneath him.

Jack pulls his hand out, wiping the mess carelessly against Kent's borrowed sweatpants, and then rolls over so they're shoulder to shoulder.

"Shit," Kent says, out of breath.

"Yeah," Jack agrees.

 

When Jack's heart has slowed down again, he gets up and grabs a new pair of shorts. He cleans up in the bathroom and comes out with a bundle of tissues for Kent. He turns away once Kent takes them, and roots around his drawers for a spare pair of shorts, throwing them in Kent's general direction with a, "These are clean."

It's weird, he's suddenly self-conscious about seeing Kent's dick, despite holding it in his hand and thinking about what it would look like, not two minutes ago. He's a little ashamed of thinking it at all, glad he didn't say anything embarrassing to Kent in the heat of the moment.

Behind him, Kent says, "I can sleep on the air mattress, if you want." His voice is dispassionate. Almost resigned.

Jack turns to face him, bewildered. "No," He says, coming off a bit more forceful than he intended. Kent just surprised him is all. Why would he think—

 _No._ Jack wants him there, _with him_. Jack wants him close. Why would Jack do any of this if he didn't want Kent close?

Kent glances at him, something vulnerable on his face, but doesn't say anything else about it. He waits for Jack to get under the covers before joining him. They lie shoulder to shoulder again. Something about Kent is still off. Jack feels an unpleasant spike of annoyance at that. Whatever it is that's going through Kent's head right now, Jack can't place it. They were good a second ago.

Jack turns on his side to look at him. Kent's staring at the ceiling, frowning like he's worried about something. Jack wants to press the line of it away, but that feels like a bizarrely intimate gesture—too sentimental for what they are. He goes for Kent's cowlick instead, smushing it down, gently, though it probably won't do anything. Kent closes his eyes at the touch, anyway, tension melting away from his face a little.

Jack doesn't know what he's thinking about. Doesn't know what he's supposed to say.

"Roll over," Jack tells him. Kent does. He's not curled in on himself, or anything, but he seems small like this. Nothing like the confident teenage boy, Jack always takes him as. Jack wraps an arm around his waist, and presses close, nose squished into Kent's hair, until Kent's shoulders loosen with sleep.

 

 

_Sunday._

 

Jack is woken up by the sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. He feels groggy. He can taste the disgusting, faded tang of artificial sugars and vodka on his tongue from the screwdrivers. Actually, he can smell vodka. Right. The air mattress. He should put that away before one of his host family comes into his room.

Jack climbs out of bed slowly, careful not to move too much and wake Kent. He'd planned to head straight for the shower, but he finds himself caught watching Kent once he's out. Kent's hair is messy, sticking up every which way. He's still in the same shirt he wore to the party, top button undone so Jack can see his collarbone. He looks good when he sleeps, rumpled and subdued. Kent's so put together, most of the time, visually and emotionally. Like this, in the soft morning light, Kent just looks real.

Jack wants to get back in. He wants to press himself to the heat of Kent's body and wake him up with a slow, warm kiss. He swallows the urge, going for a quick shower, and brushing his teeth, thinking of nothing at all.

Kent's still asleep when he comes back, so Jack throws a stray t-shirt at his face. Kent groans, petulant, and pulls it off lazily, as he rolls onto his back. He gives Jack a grumpy look, which is ineffective, because of how borderline cute it is. He reminds Jack of a kitten, sometimes.

"Come on," Jack says, stifling a smile. "I'll make you breakfast."

"Oh, sure. I love bowls of cereal," Kent says, drily.

"Fine. See if I ever offer to make you eggs again," Jack tells him, mildly. He turns, and walks to the door. He hears a sleepy groan, and then the soft padding of feet behind him, as he steps out.

 

They sit around Jack's billet house, and watch TV all afternoon, flicking from random sports channel, to random talk show, to Nickelodeon, and making crappy jokes about whatever's on. Around lunch time, they start getting a trickle of texts from the rest of the team. Burny asking what happened last night. Davy asking where the hell Kent went before the rematch. Stoltzy asking who threw up in Faye's umbrella rack. Kent snorts as he reads that one out to Jack.

Howzer and Burny say they're going for a late lunch at one of the team's favourite pizza places, close to Howzer's house. Stoltzy decides to tag along for a debrief of the night, since he stayed over at Faye's. Kent suggests they go too, since they're also nearby. Jack would rather spend the rest of the day here, alone with Kent. He likes the guys, but he's in an easy mood and he knows being around them means he'll have to set himself on guard again. But Kent keeps laughing giddily at all of their texts, so Jack figures they may as well.

It proves to be a mistake when, two slices in, Stoltzy says, "Zimmermann, you little Casanova, when are you gonna spill about Jessica?"

Howzer snickers, throwing Jack the same suggestive look from last night. Jack doesn't like it any more now than he did then. "Jack likes the cougars eh," Howzer says.

"She's, like, a year older than us," Jack points out, defensive.

"Kinky," Howzer notes, wiggling his eyebrows ridiculously at Jack.

"How basic of you, Howzer," Kent mutters, next to him, and takes a large bite of his pizza.

"You know, she was looking for you, right?" Stoltzy says. "Why didn't you come back?"

"Wait," Howzer frowns, mouth half full of pepperoni bits Burny had picked off his slices, and placed on Howzer's plate without being asked. "You guys didn't go back?"

Howzer, Burny, and Stoltzy are all sitting across from Jack and Kent, staring at them with matching inquisitive looks. It feels like they're in an interrogation. Something heavy presses down in Jack's chest, forcing his heart to beat fast. "Um," He says, ineloquently. He hadn't thought about a reason.

"I was tired. Made him take me back to his," Kent says, with perfectly feigned indifference.

The guys boo at them, lazily. Stoltzy throws a balled-up napkin at Kent's head. Kent ducks away from it, easily.

"See? _Married_ ," Stoltzy says, giving Howzer and Burny a look, as if to say,  _typical._

"Can't let Parse boss you around like that, Zimmermann, or else we'll all know you're the bitch," Burny says with a snicker.

Jack forces himself to laugh, with the rest of them, though in reality his heart feels like it's going to burst out of his ribcage. It's made worse by the fact that Kent is, very noticeably, not laughing. Jack wonders if they'd chirp him too much for suddenly fleeing to the bathroom.

"We don't even need someone bossing you around to know you're the bitch, _Ashley_ ," Kent says. His eyes flicker quickly to Jack, a flash of concern there, like he knows exactly where Jack's head is at.

"It's a unisex name, dickhead," Burny tells Kent, petulant. Next to him, Howzer laughs, traitorously.

"Uh huh," Kent says with a plastered on smirk, acting unconvinced.

Stoltzy ignores them all, and leans diagonally across Burny and Howzer, so Jack has no choice but to look him in the eye. "I can get Jess' number for you, if Parse hasn't got you too whipped," He says, with a good-natured smile. He's being friendly. Stoltzy's an affable guy. He's social. He likes to extend that to the team when he can. Unfortunately, it puts Jack in the uncomfortable position of having to say yes to him out of politeness.

"Uh, yeah," Jack mumbles. "Sure."

"Look out, Parse, that home-wrecker's going to steal your man," Howzer chirps, jovially. The comment is enough to get Burny grinning again, despite the earlier embarrassment about his first name.

Kent smiles, tightly. "Ah, I'm too good for him anyway," He says, with a dismissive shrug, leaning forward to take another bite out of his pizza, and notably not looking at Jack. His shoulders are coiled tight, and for the rest of the meal, he only speaks to throw apathetic insults at Burny and Howzer, under the guise of chirping.

 

"They're such assholes," Kent says, as they walk back to Jack's billet, so Jack can get the truck and drive Kent home. "As if Burny and Howzer aren't the gayest thing since fucking...I don't know, Ellen DeGeneres."

It's a bad joke, and it's mean, and worst of all is Kent doesn't even believe in it. He's just riled up about what Howzer said. Jack wishes Kent wouldn't. He lets out a quiet, "Yeah," to appease him.

Kent doesn't say anything else after that, evidently unsatisfied with Jack's lacklustre response to his irritation at their teammates. He doesn't speak again until Jack's driving him home, stopped at a light. "You going to ask Jessica out?"

Jack taps his fingers against the steering wheel, erratic since they never turned the radio on. "Don't think so," Jack says. "It's going to get busy once we make playoffs. Not much point."

Kent hums neutrally, and doesn't ask a follow up question.

"What about you and Lauren?" Jack asks, coolly.

"Still not feeling it," Kent says, without missing a beat.

"Right." Whatever that means. Jack glances at Kent. He's staring out the window, biting anxiously at his thumbnail. He has the same despondent energy as last night, when he asked if he should sleep on the air mattress. Not looking at Jack like he's afraid of what he might find.

The thing is, Jack knows what Kent needs him to say. He knows there's something Kent wants, just as he knows there's a reason their friends call them married. Just as he knows it would only get worse if they—

Whatever. It's not a problem. It's not going to be a problem. They're fine how they are. They'll keep going how they're going, and at the end of it, they'll be in the NHL, and Howzer and Burny and Stoltzy will be a distant memory.

Jack stalls in front of Kent's house, Kent still ignoring him.

"See you at the rink in the morning?" Jack asks.

"Sure, Zimms," Kent says, sounding tired. He reaches for the door.

"Kenny," Jack blurts out.

Kent turns to look at him, expectant. Jack doesn't know what he wants to say. There's nothing he _can_ say. He just doesn't want Kent to leave the car with his shoulders slumped like that.

Before he can overthink it, Jack darts in and kisses him. They've never kissed outside of Jack's bedroom. It's too risky here, in this city where everybody knows them, but Jack takes all his fears about that, for the moment, and channels it into kissing Kent, purposeful.

Kent makes a surprised little sound, but kisses back, timid like the first time he ever kissed Jack, five weeks ago. Like he's still scared Jack might shove him away and reject him. Jack thinks of the real Kent, the one he only ever sees in the warm, hazy morning light, or behind the cracks of a nickname, and how he always wants to kiss him when he's like that, but he never does. He imagines it might feel like this, if he tried it. Unguarded and tender.

When he pulls away, he gives Kent a tentative, encouraging smile, hoping he understands. Kent smiles back, small and unsteady, but it sparks in the forest greens and browns of his eyes. He puts a hand on Jack's shoulder, almost a simple, friendly gesture, except that it's too close to Jack's neck, and Kent's fingers stretch out to brush lightly against Jack's hair. Kent squeezes and lingers a second too long. Jack misses the warmth of it when Kent pulls his hand away.

"See ya, Zimms," Kent says, placidly, and climbs out of the truck.

Jack watches Kent as he strolls up the driveway. At the doorway, Kent glances back at him, quickly, but it's too fast for Jack to catch his expression, and then Kent's gone. Jack swallows.

This is okay. It's not a lot, but it's good. It's enough.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to do something here with, like, the seeds of the eventual breakdown of Jack and Kent's relationship, and Jack Zimmermann: Unreliable Narrator. I don't know if I actually pulled any of that off, but I'm still quite proud of this, so do let me know if it made you feel things and think thoughts and whatnot.
> 
> You can also drop me a message on tumblr if that's more comfy for you: raylangivins.tumblr.com


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